"And poli sci wanted him as well. Lola staged quite a campaign to
convince us. She thought it was a wonderful basis to study the city,
everything from the criminal justice reaction to the drug issue, the
competition for funding between prison facilities and treatment
programs, and the political response to substance abuse in society."
"What was your solution?"
"It was one of the few battles that Winston Shreve has lost here.
Dr. Lavery calls himself an anthropologist, and that's the department
in which we saw fit to place him. Much like the Black-wells Island
project—"
"Is Lavery involved in that?"
"Not that I know. But it's a similar situation in that Lavery
created a multidisciplinary approach to his issue, so the other
departments could each get a piece of his very large and quite
delicious pie. Money for everyone."
"What's the problem, Sylvia?"
"A complaint was initiated by the government a few months ago. Not
in your office, but with the feds. Southern District of New York. It
seems that a substantial sum of the money he was awarded is missing and
unaccounted for.
"The grant came with a discretionary fund. It made one hundred
thousand dollars available annually for Lavery to use as he saw fit.
Related to the research, of course." She was thumbing through documents
that appeared to be spreadsheets and accounting records.
"Lavery claims that he purchased computer equipment and office
supplies and gave cash to student interns who researched short-term
matters for him. There don't seem to be records to support him, but
most academics wouldn't be surprised by that."
"What's the theory?"
Sylvia Foote studied a point on the floor between her shoes and
Mike's desk. "Drugs, Detective. Sort of everyone's worst fear about
this grant from the outset. That the cash was being used to buy
drugs—illegal street drugs—to keep his worker bees happy. Perhaps to
use for his own pleasure. The investigation is still ongoing."
"But how—?"
"Claude Lavery is a unique character. Kind of a Pied Piper in a
college setting. Smart and creative, but gave the impression of being
the anti-academic at the same time. He has a very laid-back style, and
early on, right out of the London School of Economics Lavery would
venture into the bleakest parts of the city. Central Harlem, Bed-Stuy,
East New York, Washington Heights. He bonded with street characters,
the kind who would never let outsiders into their world. That's why his
research was unique.
"He wrote about phenomena that made him the darling of scholars in
urban studies—both the hard government types and the more
'touchy-feely' sociologists. And then, all the major newspapers picked
up his theories as though they were gospel."
"Like what?"
Foote pulled a copy of a
Washington Post
front-page story
from her briefcase. "Citing data from Lavery's studies, the story backs
his claim that it was the federal government's strict interdiction
policies about marijuana back in the seventies and eighties that
created the market for international cocaine trafficking to fill the
void.
"The students were wildly enthusiastic whenever they came under his
spell. They would walk into a neighborhood with Claude—the kind of
place these middle-class kids wouldn't dare to go on their own—and find
that he had established this wonderful rapport with the locals. That
led him, and them, to the addicts and, finally, to the dealers."
"You thought maybe by bringing this guy to the college he was gonna
be hanging around on Sesame Street? What's the surprise here?"
"Frankly, Detective, you're right. That's why some of my colleagues
aren't the least bit shocked. They expected no less. I presume," she
said with great resignation, "that some of them are the people who
sparked this formal complaint. Caribbean vacations to study island
sources and native drug use, major foundations pouring money in on top
of the government grant—things quite likely to make other serious
academics a bit envious. And then you have the real distress. What if
Claude Lavery was literally putting money into the hands of these
students to enable them to buy drugs themselves?"
I wondered if this could be the story that had reached David Fillian
in state prison. Perhaps Lavery was the professor Dr. Hop-pins was
referring to when she stopped me in the courtroom to tell me the news
that Fillian was trying to barter for an early release. Was Lavery the
person selling drugs to students?
"The kid who hanged himself the other day—any connection to Lavery?"
"Not that we can tell. Julian Gariano was more involved with what
they call designer drugs—speed, Ecstasy, some cocaine. Claude's work
was primarily with street drugs, but as you know, those lines have been
increasingly blurred the last few years. They had certainly met, and
Julian was in one of Lavery's classes. No one puts them together
outside the lecture hall."
"The missing girl?"
"No link at all."
"Lola Dakota. Connect those dots for me."
Sylvia looked at her files. "As soon as the federal allegation was
filed, we suspended Lavery. Quite frankly, we were trying to mount a
case to revoke his tenure, which is not an easy thing to do. Professor
Dakota led the opposition to the administration. Backed Claude with all
her strength. Even turned Winston Shreve around and had him barking at
us to wait and see, allow Claude the presumption of innocence."
"Why?"
"Well, we don't know exactly why. She claimed it was strictly for
professional reasons. He bucked the system, just as she did. If anyone
admired his unorthodox techniques, it would have been a maverick like
Lola.
"Then, there's a more malevolent view. Some people were worried that
there was something more in it for Lola. Money, to be exact. That she
had been using some of Claude Lavery's funds for her own purposes."
"For drugs?"
Sylvia Foote frowned. "No one's ever made that claim. There's not
even the hint of a rumor that Lola would have anything to do with
drugs. Nor would she tolerate that in her students. But her own
projects were quite costly to run. And she was dreadfully competitive.
If she could buy an edge for herself, there are those on our faculty
who are convinced she would have done it." "Do you believe it?"
"Lola was a thorn in my side. Constantly. If someone could create
trouble for my staff any day of the week, it would be Lola, pushing the
envelope every time. I didn't like her alliance with Lavery, and the
reason for it is still a mystery to me. She wasn't a particularly
materialistic person, and I don't understand what she would have wanted
with the money. But the fact remains that a substantial sum has
vanished, and before you saw that story in the headlines or heard it
from your federal counterparts, Paolo thought I ought to tell you that
it was under investigation."
"But other than the fact that Lola was backing Dr. Lavery, was there
anything else to suggest an attachment between them?"
Sylvia gave it a few moments' thought. "Nothing unusual. Good
friends, neighbors—"
"Whaddaya mean, neighbors?" Mike asked.
"Claude lived in the same building that Lola did: 417 Riverside
Drive. He lived one flight above her. Directly overhead, if I'm not
mistaken."
I looked at Mike and could tell that our wheels were spinning in the
same direction. I did a mental run-through of the police reports of the
canvass of the apartment house that detectives had conducted the day
after the body was found. I couldn't call up a memory of any particular
names, but it should have been obvious that a building that close to
the King's College campus would have been full of residents who were
faculty members or staff. Had the cops talked to anyone named Lavery?
Had they accounted for his whereabouts the afternoon Lola Dakota was
killed? Had they cross-checked names of tenants with Lola's family or
friends to see what her relationships were with others in the building?
Chapman's impatience was more obvious than my own. "Where's Lavery
now?"
"I have no idea, Detective. The last time I saw him was at the vigil
on Friday evening. So many people have gone out of—"
"Who can tell me where he is this very minute? Today." Chapman was
standing now, ready to be unleashed from the polite tether of
administrative interviews and get his hands into the dirt.
"He has been suspended from the college. He doesn't have to report
to us or tell us his whereabouts. Dr. Lavery continues to receive a
paycheck from us until this is resolved, and if the feds come down with
an indictment, I assume the rules may be somewhat different for him."
"How about this other guy, the biologist?"
"Professor Grenier? What about him?"
"He's another one I'd like to talk to."
Sylvia pushed some more papers around. "Grenier's on sabbatical
until the beginning of the new year. Can you be patient another week or
two, Detective?"
"Frankly, Ms. Foote, I can't be patient another damn minute." He
towered over her, shaking his pen in her face as he talked. "You get a
forty-eight-hour reprieve 'cause Santa's coming to town and there's
nothing I can do about that. These guys are on your payroll; you just
said that. Lola Dakota is colder than a stone and six feet under.
Find
these guys, understand me? I want to see Skip Lockhart, Thomas
Grenier, and Claude Lavery by the weekend. Move heaven, earth, and
unlock your unsmiling frozen jaw to make it happen."
Sylvia's papers were sliding off her lap as she listened to
Chapman's booming voice. They scattered to the floor, and I helped her
organize them while he continued to list instructions. By the time she
left us, she was walking so unsteadily that I had to hold her arm all
the way out to the reception area.
"When are you coming back from the country?" Mike asked as I walked
toward his desk. I looked at his calendar. This was Tuesday and
tomorrow was Christmas Day. "I'll be back on Thursday unless you want
me to change our plans."
"Don't bother. Nobody's here to work with. Just figure we'll be
scrambling all next weekend on this, if Foote rounds up her troops and
if the lab is good with any test results." He picked up the phone that
was ringing on his desk. "It's Laura, for you."
"The superintendent of your building just called, Alex. There's a
problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"Seems like there are two workmen who were found in your apartment.
The super needs you to come home right away and see if anything's
missing."
I slammed down the phone and told Mike I had to go home.
"Not without me. I'm driving."
"You've got things to do. I'll grab a cab."
"Not with that chubby little whackjob whose ID you glommed running
around looking for you. You live twenty floors up, with two doormen on
every shift. How the hell did anyone fly into your little love nest? I
can't get there on my best day, best behavior."
We drove downtown and parked in the garage in my building. The woman
from the apartment below me was standing in the lobby, with her Boston
terrier, when we walked in.
"The management's security guys are upstairs, along with a detective
from the precinct," Jesse said, following us into the elevator.
"What happened?"
"You know the guys who've been working on the scaffolding? Well, you
don't see them much, 'cause you're at work all day. But once my kids
leave for school, I'm around the house in the morning, and then I'm in
and out all day. It's been really creepy to have them around. They seem
to be looking in the windows all the time."
For the past six weeks, scaffolding had been erected around the
entire high-rise apartment building as it was undergoing repairs to the
brickwork and the replacement of some of the windows. Workmen arrived
early and spent most of their days hanging off the roof, being raised
up and down by a series of pulleys as they went about their business.
"This morning," Jesse continued, "I left about an hour ago to do
some errands. Got all the way up to the avenue and realized I had
forgotten something, so I turned and went back. When I got inside, the
first thing I noticed was that the windows in the living room were wide
open and my dog was barking. Then I could see the scaffolding platform
rising on the ropes. I grabbed the dog and ran down to the door.
"I told one of the guys on duty what had happened, and Vinny took a
run up to check your apartment, since it's right above mine. He must
have your passkey." "He does."
"He opened the door, and the two workmen were standing in the middle
of your living room."
We stopped on twenty and got off. My apartment door was ajar and I
could hear the loud arguing between the detective and one of the
workmen as the three of us walked in.
"Not the traditional way to enter someone's home, but thanks for
having us, Alex." The guys from the Nineteenth greeted us as they sat
in my living room, trying to talk to the two interlopers. "You heard
the story?" one asked, looking over at Jesse. "Yeah. What's their
version?"
"They say the wind was so bad that they had to get inside, or they
were afraid they'd be blown off." It was the first thing I had heard
that seemed logical. "They kicked the window in and came through that
way," Detective Powell said, pointing to the marble-topped counter on
my cabinets behind the dining table. "Looks like they broke some of
your china."
I glanced over to see that several of the decorative antique plates
that were displayed on the sideboard had fallen to the floor splintered
into pieces.
"So how come, if they were so terrified, they broke the window
downstairs but didn't go in?" Mike asked. "Doesn't make sense if all
they were worried about was saving their asses."
"The story they're giving us is that when the dog started barking,
they backed out."